Post by Kella on Apr 28, 2010 2:32:45 GMT -5
Author's note: Parts of the following bio are quite macabre in shade. You've been forwarned.
Name: Irrisorie (EAR-ih-sor-ee)
Aliases: Iri (eerie) / Sorie (sOR-ee)
Race: Firrerreo
Age: 28
Height: 5'4
Weight: 120 lbs
Birth place: Aaeton
Iri is of average height, with a petite and dainty build. However, her wiry muscles can be surprisingly strong, and so it's best to avoid her when she's in an... enthusiastic mood. Iri's eyes smile, even when her expression does not, and her light brown irises have metallic flecks that look like literal gold. Her dark, almost black hair has a warm, reddish shade to it, and falls to the center of her shoulder blades. Her firrerreo heratige is visible in the streaks of metallic gold that run through the black, sometimes visible, sometimes not, depending on how her hair is pinned that particular day. Her cream colored skin is marked by several scars -- traumas so deep as to have permanently marred a Firrerreo. One scar, several inches long, runs along the underside of her jaw, starting at the base of her ear. Another one runs diagonally along the top of her thigh, and yet another curves around the outside of her upper arm. The last notable one is on her back, and runs parallel to her spine from the base of her left shoulderblade, to the middle of her hip. She has a few other scars, but these are minor and subltle, on fingers or toes, or near joints.
Her cloak is black, and has no hood. The cotton fabric has been worn limp and soft with the years, and can often be found with the acquisitions of Iri's adventures -- sometimes mud and dirt, water and dust. The wide, sweeping neck is trimmed with round maroon beads, and usually hangs off one shoulder or another, revealing the simple, thin-strapped black dress she wears underneath. Her cloak is cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt, more utilitarian than fashionable. The outer-cloak splits just above her knee, revealing again her under-dress. The lower hems of both are oft' repaired, and usually ripped or torn regardless. Wide, flaring sleeves cover her arms, trimmed with the same maroon beads as her collar. Various parts of her cloak bear subtle black embroidery, in the form of inter-twining roses, vines, and symbols. She usually wears nothing more on her feet than simple black slippers, with dark purple ribbons that wrap around her ankles. Every bit of her wardrobe is chosen for texture as much as color -- the soft cotton, the smooth beads, the silk satin of her ribbons, the firmness of the leather.
Those who know the Mythos can see another part of her, invisible to the lost -- the familiars that often follow her around. In actuality, they are nothing more than hallucinations -- facets of Iri's forbidden subconscious. However, due to Iri's strength in telepathy, they appeal just as real to other Mythos-sensitives as they do to her. For more information on the familiars, see below.
Few people actually call the strange girl 'Irrisorie'. She almost always is hailed by either 'Iri' or 'Sorie'. She has forgotten her surname, and has no reason to find a new one, so she goes without. When she was barely more than an infant, a series of traumas split her mind into two divisions. Her conscious mind exists without perception of pain or suffering. Hers is a form of extreme Naivte, to the point where death is little more than a very long sleep, violence is just a game, and blood is pretty red paint.
There are times in which she will function normally -- especially when speaking about some fact, or the Mythos. But then she'll say or do something very... odd. Other people are as much a fascination to her as birds and flowers and sky. She tends to percieve these things in black and white, coming to simple conclusions that are surprisingly insightful.
When Iri decides she wants something, she has trouble understanding 'no' as an answer. While distracable, her memory is usually very sharp, and she will pursue her mission with dogged persisance. However, mercy may come in appealing to Gnare, who will gently guide her on to something else.
Iri is the sort who's content to remain in her own world. However, if asked, she will show a selfless loyalty. Though she can't always percieve the needs of those around her, if she can, she will do what she can to help. Iri is implicitly trusting, and if not for Clamo, it's likely she'd walk off happily with Death himself, at a single sweet word.
For those who take the time to understand Iri's motivations and mind, they might find themselves a good, albeit strange, friend. Perhaps she has enough good qualities to redeem the macabre shade of her life. Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
About:
They are a part of Iri, and yet they are not -- so they are dearly familiar, but not quite friends -- and thus, she has dubbed them 'the familiars'. Sometimes they are present, sometimes they are not, and they can appear and disappear without warning or notice, and Iri rarely gives any indication of their whereabouts. Though truly figments of her subconscious, they interact with the world as their own selves.
Gnare: The most commonly seen of the familiars. He is a Dark Wolf, and a very loyal fellow, usually sitting faithfully at his master's side when he is present. His fur is a dark shade of navy, with two silver eyes that seem to shine in the darkness. His shoulders are mantled in a dense pallet of leathery skin, which, if he had physical mass, would have protected him from the wicked stinger that tips his tail. His teeth are long, sharp, and gleaming white -- but have no bite. He is, after all, only a hallucination. He usually manifests as Iri's voice of reason, especially in interactions with other people.
Clamo: This Corellian Banshee Bird never speaks, but is always heard. He'll swoop in at just the right moment, screeching call announcing the presence of danger. In times of general wariness, he'll simply remain and watch, often perching on Gnare's leathery back. His appearance is the norm of his species, white with narrow black stripes on his upper side, a bright red throat, a short, but curved and powerful beak and long edges to his tail. He's approximately the size of an eagle.
Baor: Though his appearances are rare, this massive Boar Wolf is no creature to be trifled with. He appears only when the greatest threats are approaching Iri -- threats that Clamo can't warn away. Though he has no physical presence, the sheer horror of his appearance, as vividly represented through Iri's telepathy, is enough to make even the most certain soul think twice. His ugly maw is usually dripping with drool, his flank foaming with sweat, his beady eyes filled with rage.
Etc: Iri has approximately ten familiars that appear and disappear; some are more familiar than others. For example, there is a puppy Kath hound who especially likes to appear when she's extremely happy, and a magnalui who comes when places just feel dark (Though, as he's a Hallucination, the benefit is purely psychological).
Profession: (Grey Jedi) Stellar Mythic
Skills: General artistic ability. Other than that, nothing notable.
Previous Faction: N/A
Mastery Level: Knight
Staff:
Iri's staff is approximately five feet long, from tip to pommel. Its core is a dense hardwood, wrapped with varying textures. Strips of different materials are wrapped neatly around the staff. From the pommel to the tip, there's the dark grey, sand-papery skin of a local sharp-toothed fish, a ridged bit of royal purple cordory cloth, a bit of short-haired, but very soft white fur, the shed, emerald skin of a smooth lizard, a bit of dense black canvas, and a strip of dark blue satin. The pommel, a nearly-spherical stone, is bound to the staff by four metal prongs. Though it was once rough, it has been worn smooth by the years, revealing a marbled swirl of deep brown and crimson red within. The head of Iri's bears a flat, circular ring of wrought iron, decorated with ornate, almost dainty cut-outs. The ring was bent at the center to form a right angle, so that it appears as if two semi-circles are fastened to the tip of the shaft, and then join at the top. Within this cradle, a fist-sized sphere is suspended. Usually, the sphere is unremarkable -- polished to a sheen, but dull and milky inside. However, those who have eyes for the Mythos have the pleasure of understanding why Iri chose it. When the staff is in her hand, it dances with a million different colors, which dart around and flitter within, ever changing, flaring and dulling, in a shimmering show of lights. It is partly a product of Iri's subconscious, but it is also partly a manipulation of pure Mythos.
From the base of the wrought iron, many small trinkets hang. There are somewhere between a dozen and two dozen, each tied on a different sort of cord. Strips of leather, some narrow ribbons, narrow silver chain, are some of the sorts of cords that bound the trinkets. Each cord is a different length, but all are less than twelve inches, so that the trickets gather around the end of the staff, and chink together as they move, making all sorts of noises. The trinkets vary as much as their cords do; there's the small skull of a shrew, a few colored crystals, a sea shell, the fluffy tail of a small rodent, among others; all acquired in Iri's various wanderings, and added over time. She likes the noise they make when they move together, and she chose each one for some special delight -- such as a twinkle in its color, or the texture of its surface.
Sword:
Irrisori's sword is little more than a dagger, which she keeps sheathed on the belt at her waist. Its blade is a dark greyish black, double-edged and sharpened to a decent point. It bears enough dents and nicks to suggest somewhat negligent use, but it is almost always sharp enough to serve the desired purposes. (Namely cutting flowers or fruit, or whittling away at a random bit of wood.) The light grey grip is rough like sandpaper, so that it does not slip out of Iri's grasp, even when wet. The handle is carved out of a bit of black marble, with silver veins running through it, giving the dagger a significant weight. A few runes are burned into the Grey material of the grip, and the inscription is continued by silver etching in the black blade. While it loses something in translation, it means basically, 'There is a soft art in sharpness'.
Force (Mythos) Abilities or practices:
Mythos Mist: (A variation of Force Illusion) The author-given name of her odd telepathic ability. Iri has such a strong telepathic presence in the Force, that she can alter the aura, for lack of a better word, of the mythos around her. Up to a certain distance, this presence hangs in the air like mist -- hence the name. All who are within this metaphorical mist, are gently enveloped in Iri's telepathic influence. Those who can sense the Mythos, can sense this mist, and those who can't, cannot sense the mist. Because it is broad, and non-invasive, this is very difficult to guard against, because when one is in the mist, the influence is coming from no particular direction. In fact, it's nearly impossible to defend against it with the Mythos, because it alters the Mythos the defender would be using. The only real effect of this is that Iri's hallucinations -- her familiars, and the images she creates with her mind -- are visible to all around her. The range of this mist is generally dependent on how much energy she has. During times when she is separated from the mythos -- such as withdraws due to lack of Etherium, or her fits of terror, these illusions, of course, disappear. Usually harmless.
Memory Imprint: A somewhat flawed and imperfect skill for Iri, but present, all the same.
Telekinesis: A relatively basic manifestation of the skill. Iri uses non-elemental telekinesis to move things. However, it almost always appears that one of her familiars is moving things. It is this melding of skills that gives the familiars some -- but not much -- physical presence. Any IC mentions of familiars affecting physical things is assumed to be an instance of telekinesis.
Mental Link: While a mental link can be easily established with Iri, and she's taken to sometimes establishing them herself, one must be exceedingly careful -- Stress or unhappiness within the other's mind might trigger a reaction in Iri, causing her to rip violently and suddenly away from the Mental Link.
Specialized Skills:
Telekinetic: 6
Telepathic: 7
Body: 1
Sense: 5
Protection: 2
Healing: 2
Destruction: N/A
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 6
Intelligence: 7
Speed: 7
Leadership: 4
Unarmed: 2
Melee Weapons: 3
Ranged Weapons: 2
Force (Mythos) Attunement: +4
Despite the Darkness in her soul, the pain exists in the absence of the Mythos -- when she is all alone. When she touches the etheral force, it echoes some of her good intention.
Bio:
I.
She was born smiling, while the sticky birthstuff still clung to her skin. Her parents gave to her the name 'Irrisorie', meaning, 'a smile with irony,' for she would be their bane as much as their joy.
Mere moments after this, the screams of life filled Iri's little lungs, and her mother cradled her, only half listening to the doctor congratulate her on a healthy, normal litle girl.
But Iri's mother knew that she was not normal. She was special, and in the best of ways.
II.
By the light of the day, Iri was her mother's little joy. Though she was only two, Mother knew she was smart. Very smart. Ir's little mouth made surprisingly whole sentences, and, by her third birthday, she had taught herself to read.
The mode of this was nothing other than her nightly bedtime stories. Through a question, she learned that the letters meant sounds, and the spaces were pauses. So she'd follow the words with her eyes, and she'd follow her mother's voice with her ears, until the strange letters came to mean something, and she could recognize the shape of the word somewhere else, and tell her mother proudly what it was. Iri was a bright and loving child, and her mother was perfectly attentive. Until she tucked Iri into bed. And then she vanished.
The light of the moon found Iri the property of something wholly other. Iri's father was not the man he seemed to be. He did evil, horrible things to Iri -- the details of which no mind should dwell upon. Though, let it be known that the little one was never violated. Even so, the abuse left scars upon her, body and mind.
The pain, spirit and flesh, might have been enough to drive some poor souls into a merciful death. But Iri was a Firrerreo, and her body fought... and she simply... could not... die... And yet, it was through this that Iri showed just how special she was. Her mind could not handle the pain, and so it tucked it away. The pain and the sadness and the suffering filtered down into the deepest, darkest layers of her subconscious.
So, Iri became like a coin. By the light, she was everything happy, naïve and innocent. She did not hide the pain -- she simply could not perceive it. She would skin her knee, crush her finger, and not a tear came to her eye. Only a smile. Her hand would still jerk back from a hot stove, for those reflexes occurred without the input of the brain, but when she grabbed the raw end of an electrical cord, and her hair stood on end, and her fingers burned, she just smiled. And laughed. A beautiful, sweet, horrible, disturbing laugh.
But sometimes, some force would disturb her. The coin would flip, and for as long as that force was upon her, she was pain. She was pain and suffering. But these things were heavy, and when the force was upon her no longer, the heavy darkness moved back to the bottom, and flipped the coin around again.
So things were for the next three years. Then they changed.
III.
Iri came into the living room, and she saw her mother lying on the floor, with her eyes closed. She lay in a pretty little puddle, like the ones after great big rain storms. But this puddle was red, a pretty shade of red, and it was wet.
And wet things with colors were paint. "Mommy, is this paint?" Mommy didn't answer, and her eyes were closed, so she must have been sleeping. "Oh, shhhhhhhhh, I won't wake you up mommy. I'll paint you a picture and surprise you!" Iri dipped her hands in the paint, and it was warm and sticky. If it was warm, then maybe mommy had warmed it up. Iri looked over, and saw that mommy must have kept it warm inside herself, because it was coming out of some lines in her tummy. And so, Iri took her paint covered hands and drew a picture on the wall, with big, bright strokes.
And when she was done, and stepping back to admire her picture, her pretty red picture, she decided it was perfectly ready for mommy to see. And so she went back to her mommy, and poked and prodded her to wake her up, but mommy didn't wake up. So she jumped up and down next to her, splashing the paint up and over all of them, giggling because mommy had made a wake-up game.
And then she hear Father come in, and he must have seen her game and heard her words, because he told her, "Mommy isn't going to wake up." "Oh," Iri said, disappointed. She must have broken the rules of the game. Then, she saw that Father had a knife in his hand, and it had paint on it too. "Father, did you make mommy's paint come out?" he said nothing which Iri decided meant 'yes'. "Oh! Father, look at the picture I made!" she ran over to the wall. "Look! It's mommy and me! And there's a doggy too because I want a doggy." She pointed proudly at the stick figures. "Come here, Sorie." he said. Iri took a step toward her father, but then she stopped, and smiled a big, bright smile. "Father! Let's play tag! You're it!" Iri dashed off through the house, leaving red hand prints on the wall as she swung around the corners. She reached the backdoor, and turned around just long enough to tell her father that he was a slow-poke.
And then she ran. She ran for the wind at her back, she ran for the reedy grass that whispered on her dress, and when her little white shoes fell off, she ran for the mud between her toes. And then the field melted into the trees, and still she ran, for the cool thrill of the trees.
Her feet never hurt, despite the prickers and branches that cut into her flesh, and she probably could have kept running until she just fell down and slept. But then she splashed into a shallow creek, and she liked the way the red paint made ribbons in the water, so she stood there until all the red washed away. She didn't hear anything but forest sounds, and Iri smiled. She was so clever at this game.
IV.
Iri eventually wandered into another neighborhood, having somewhat forgotten how to get home. It was not long before a police officer on patrol notice the wandering child, and scooped her up, just as night was coming on. "Where's your mommy?" the woman asked. Iri replied, "She is asleep and won't wake up, and all her paint came out, and so I don't think she wants to play any more games."
Iri made a good friend in the police officer, and lots of others over the next few weeks. She knew that at first, they had been horrified by the way she could be hurt and not notice. But her body was that of a Firrerreo, and it healed amazingly fast, and none of the injuries she inflicted upon herself remained long. They asked her lots of questions, and then they helped her be brave when she had to stand up in front of a very many people, in the big white building, and tell them that yes, that was her father, and yes, he had used his knife to make all of Mommy's paint come out.
They also had pictures of Iri's pretty picture, and she liked that everyone had got to see it. And then, they showed some pictures of the blue marks on Iri's skin that looked a bit like hands. Then some of her friends showed Father out the door, and she didn't see him again.
Iri would never see her mother again either. The Aaeton justice system found her a place at the Chiri Marget Home For Lost Boys And Girls. Here she stayed, where they learned to deal with her when the coin flipped. Many people knew her parents and her story from the holo-news -- and it was this that caused the fickle public to simultaneously bless those at the Home as saints, and yet thoughtfully pas her over, when the prospective parents came to visit.
V.
Days of joy and nights of pain passed, one after another, as the leaves grew on the trees, spread to full blossom, then shifted to brilliant colors of red, before falling dead and brown to the ground. Then the leaves grew again, and they died, and they grew, and they died, and the planet moved around the sun, and Iri was sixteen.
She had grown into a beautiful girl, with a bright smile and brighter eyes, but still, her night-terrors would grip her in the darkness. There were times in which you could speak to her, and she would seem perfectly like the other children, calm, kind, respectful. But then, there were other times in which she would say something, or do something, that just... wasn't right. Always the first to answer in lessons, the teachers loved her, but she was in her own little world.
A few things broke the monotony. Museum fieldtrips were one. Iri loved them, because she loved to go and touch everything, to feel all the textures, and appreciate the way they moved across her skin, smooth or rough, soft or sharp.
While she was there, at the Museum, surrounded by all of the textures, she wandered away from the group, and happened upon an exhibit, and happened upon a man. He was tall and he was cloaked, and he smelled like something odd, and Iri decided she would talk to him.
At first he was surprised, but then it seemed he warmed up the the idea of conversation, and finally, an expression came over his face like he had just discovered something important. 'Mythos' he said. He kept talking about the 'Mythos' and how she had it, how he had known it from the very beginning, and that's why he had been drawn to her, come to talk to her, because of her power in the Mythos. Iri thought it would be silly to correct him, because he seemed so very happy at what he was saying.
He asked who she was with, and she told him about the Home. And then he talked with her teacher, and there was much nodding and murmuring, and then the teacher looked relieved. Then the man returned, and invited Iri along to a new planet, and a new life. And she said yes. So Iri went with him, and that was that.
VI.
Aiaru was a spectacular new place. From the cities and suburbs of Aaeton, Iri had been plunged into a psychedelic swirl of sight and sound, broad green plants, and bio-luminescent creatures, huge insects and rushing rivers. Everything fascinated her, everything filled her with wonder.
Especially the white tower. The grand white tower with its dark black tunnels. She ran her hand along the stone the whole way, letting the exquisite textures fill her... coarse... smooth... cool...
She listen to the many new people in the big room. They all wore cloaks and held staffs. Iri began to connect the dots, from the Mythos to the men. They asked her many questions, and she answered all with perfect honesty. And then, she felt other things... strange things in her mind... they didn't push, they just listened. Listened to the pulse of her thoughts. And so she poked them a bit with her own mind, and sang them a song. It was a great game.
Then the things were gone, and there were surprised looks on all their faces. And Iri smiled. She had won the game! They said things about potential, about her odd state of mind, and how it could be worked with. And they talked about the Mythos, and Iri thought it all sounded wonderful.
Then, they set the burning blue dust in front of her. She drank it deep into her lungs.
VII.
Iri's eyes were opened now. The dark places of the world were now brighter, her thinking clearer. And, under the influence of the etherium, Iri's night terrors all but vanished. And then, of course... there were the hallucinations. But they were not fiction to Iri, they were true, they were real. Over the next few months, as she was exposed to all sorts of things within the temple and Aiaru, a few characters began to recur. These creatures were pieced together from her own fragmented memories as well as, unbeknownst to her, small bits of the memories of those around her. These familiar ones would come to number nearly a dozen, but most remarkable were three -- the first, a Dark Wolf, with silky fur like navy satin. He spoke words of wisdom, and of knowledge and of patience, and Iri called him Gnare. The second was a Corellian Banshee Bird, Clamo, a falcon-shaped avian with black and white stripes on its wings, and a red throat. His screeching cry warned Iri of the places she should not go. And last of the three was Baor, the Burra. He came when bad things needed to be scared away. These hallucinations gave voice and body to parts of Iri's subconscious that had been buried with the pain -- caution, aggression, and thoughtfulness. By adding back the parts, she became closer to a whole. But as long as her conscious shunned the pain, her mind would always be fragmented.
Over the course of time, and as Iri's studied progressed, it was suddenly realized that Iri's hallucinations could be seen by others. The Infomancer who bore the brunt of the discovery had his feathers quite ruffled, as he found himself staring through the teeth of a very peeved Gnare. Perhaps Iri had a bit more potential for telepathy than the elder ones had originally thought.
VIII.
A year or two passed, and then three, then four, and Iri and her cohorts became a common sight among the halls of The Tower. Her skills and her influence expanded, even to the point where some of the Lost could see shadows of her friends. Iri's intelligence continued to show, and she quickly devoured the lessons taught to her, of planets and galaxies, of formulas and mathematics, and of philosophy and theory.
At this point, one of the other mythics, a former Jedi named Rhetor, began to work with her to apply the principles of Force Illusion. Rhetor wanted Iri to learn to use the Mythos to manipulate her hallucinations. Long hours and efforts poured into this, and once, Rhetor even made the mistake of pushing Iri too far. It had been too long since she had breathed the sweet blue smoke, and Iri's body began to shake and tremble. The slightest touch sent her deep into a fit of terror, and it took Rhetor several days to pull her out of this state, to get the blue smoke back into her veins. But finally he succeeded, and it seemed as if that had been the break-through -- it had joined something in her conscious to the hallucinations of her subconscious. Now, her hands could draw ribbons in the air, and her fingers could twirl runes upon the wall, and she could counjour memories into the palm of her hand.
In fact, memories were another much-worked topic of Iri's training. Try and try as Rhetor did, he could not impart to Iri mastery of the memory imprint. Some memories came to her incredibly easily -- memories she enjoyed, memories she liked. They would play in her palm, over and over again. But other memories shifted past the layer of her conscious, to the other side of her psyche. To touch them was to risk bringing forth a fit of terror, and it simply was not worth it. But Iri was content with her imperfect skill, just as Gnare was content to tell her to listen to her master, and Clamo was content to remember what was danger, to remember what hurt, and to keep Iri away from such things again.
VIII.
Iri's twenty-first birthday came and went sometime in that next year, but she was not sure exactly when. Though her body was that of an adult, her mind was just barely beginning to come into that maturity. She had been with Gnare and Clamo long enough that small parts of them had begun to rub into her conscious. She was beginning to understand the concept of danger, the idea of risk. However, these were only inklings, only the slightest glimmers of gossamer next to an impenetrable wall of black.
It was at this point that the teachers decided that there was little more they could teach Iri as an understudy. It was not that she had learned everything -- far from it, it was simply that they had figured out what she could not be taught, and had ceased attempting to Force it on her. Thus, Iri was allowed out of the watchful shadows that had marked her time as an understudy, and into the ranks of the Mythics. One of her teachers, curious to see how she would handle the task, gave Iri the mission of creating a staff for herself, unaided. She began with a long, straight shaft of wood, shaped to her sketched specifications by another mythic. Then, bits and pieces began to come together into her staff. At the base, she attached an almost-spherical stone, knowing that the stone floors might wear through a wooden foot. Various materials were wrapped neatly around the staff, each chosen for their unique texture, and found in Iri's wanderings. One-third of the way from the top of the staff, she decided to place two metal guards, one on either side, so that if she ever had to hold her staff while going someplace odd, her fingers wouldn't get so stiff. The next addition was a flat, circular wring of wrought iron, which Iri had once salvaged from the wreckage of a rotted wooden bench. It was decorated with ornate cut-outs, and for her staff, she, with help, of course, bent it at the center to form a ninety-degree angle, so that it appeared as if two semi-circles came from the end of her staff, and joined at the top. The last piece was one Iri had treasured for years, a perfectly spherical gem rescued from its grave, forgotten in the sand under a shade-leaf tree. It was suspended within the cradle of the wrought-iron in such a way that it appeared to hover within the housing. Iri polished its surface to a smooth sheen, examining happily the translucent, milky cloud within. It seemed an odd, dull piece for a girl with such a love for things with shine and color. However, when she first picked up the completed staff, its purpose became clear -- colors of every hue and shade danced within it, ever changing and flitting about as if they had a mind of their own. They were, of course, only visible to those whose eyes saw the Mythos.
IX.
As Iri matured, she also became more aware of the people around her. She had always known that other people had their own minds, thoughts, and presences, but now she found herself with a curiosity to get to know them, to interact with them, and to understand why they were what they were. Sometimes, she would become too enthusiastic, and under the weight of her assault, the surprised Mythics would allow their telepathic barriers to crumble, and Iri would rush into their conscious, a disturbing presence. But she could feel in them the emotions that she could not feel in herself. Like fingers on a hot stove, everything in her conscious jerked away from these emotions, leaving the poor soul free and solitary, once again.
Therefore, her next lesson was control, and though Gnare and Clamo could whisper her in the right direction, it was something she would have to learn herself. But for all her effort, the results were naught, and Iri was distracted from the study, letting it fade away into the depths of her memory. It would have to be a process, a slow, winding process...
In fact, the next five years of Iri's life could be characterized by those words. Slow, and winding. She took each day as its own individual gem, its own wonder and delight. She picked up friends, and she laid then down along the way, but it seemed as if no one could quite crack her code. Her contribution to the Mythics was simple and two-fold -- in the first matter, she made the ultimate presentation tool. She could draw in the air nearly anything her mind could fathom, making visual representation of abstract concepts. In the same vein, there were times in which a strange music came up on her soul, and she would begin to dance, and draw flaring colors in the air like dancing ribbons, and it was a wonder to behold. In the second matter, she tagged along various places with scouting groups and such. One instance revealed that her visions could touch any who knew the Mythos, and Baor had himself the pleasure of chasing away a small band of Forsaken.
But all was not well for Iri. The longer she endured without a fit of terror, the more intense it was when it finally came. Those around her could do nothing, simple nothing, but lock her in her room to fight her own demons. Iri was viciously addicted to the Etherium, and her withdraws onset quickly. Without the comfort of her friends, she descended into worlds of maddening pain, and only the shots Etherium, coursing through her blood hot as adrenaline, could bring back to her the small semblance of sanity she retained.
X.
And, even now, after nearly two decades, Iri still had a love for the slick red paint. Never did she draw the paint from a living creature -- Clamo and Gnare prevented her from doing this. So with her knife, she would take the paint of a familiar, or her own paint, and use the blade to cast it upon the walls. Her works caught the essence of their subject in shades of glistening crimson.
These existed only in the realm of hallucination, but they often appeared so vividly, so clearly that it was as disturbing as if it were real. Iri could not be shooed along; she was committed to her art. But, if one simply let her finish her picture, then she would move along, soon distracted by some other thing, and the paintings would fade away.
But some lingered. Those in her room were ever present, be she in or out of the room -- with her psyche, she had ingrained them into the very presence, the very Mythos of the stone, and all who were sensitive to it saw them. Yet, if one could get over the crimson shade, and the wet hue... they really were beautiful pictures.
And so time had drawn Iri along to age twenty-six, and her place in the tower was home. The future is never certain, not for a single soul, but it was especially precarious for Iri. Would her addiction finally kill her? Would someone crack her code? Would the two halves ever become one again, or would the coin finally turn the darkside out, and stay that way forever?
Irrisorie did not care.
While others fretted about their future, she simply stopped, and smelled a rose.
RP Sample:
"The stylus has a bit of division to it," she said, with a voice as sweet and clear as the nectar rolling into her hand. "I'd say family Aphilidae. What do you think, Gnare?"
The wolf looked up from where he lazed under the shade of the flowering tree. He pried a skeptical eyebrow upwards to take a peek at the flower in his master's hand. His tail wagged, the stinger swishing a bit through the grass. "It seems reasonable enough to me."
Irrisorie nodded, using the bit of graphite in her hand to make one last curling stroke upon the parchment, labeling the sketch that lay in her book, a flower as crisp and real as the one in her hand, represented by varying shades of the dense black dust. Iri closed her book happily, and set it aside. She looked up at the tree, and her toe thoughtfully prodded a tuft of grass.
"I want that one," she said, eyes upon the highest blossom on the tree.
Gnare eyed it. "It's probably just the same as the one you had."
"No. It's got a special scent. Because it's at the top of the tree it's got a special scent, it's special."
Gnare sighed, and quietly began, "Now you're going to ask me to climb the tr--"
"Climb the tree, won't you Gnare?" Iri overlapped. "But please be careful."
Gnare sighed again, but hauled himself up off the ground. He leapt up onto the tree, his claws appearing to dig in deep, but leaving no mark. Though the branches were dense, the foliage thick, the large wolf did not disturb them. Rather, he came back down a few moments later, the prized blossom held gently between his teeth.
Iri took it happily from him, burying her nose in the center of the petals, breathing deep its scent, and giggling at the pleasure. She let the blossom drop again, revealing a layer of yellow pollen on her nose, which disappeared with a laugh and a shake of her head. She blew some of the pollen at Gnare, and he sneezed comically.
Suddenly, a bit of motion caught her eye, and the blossom fell aside, forgotten. A carrion bird flew overhead, and Iri rose quickly, pulling the skirt of her cloak up to her knees, and running along through the low plants and brambles.
She came to a familiar sweet smell, and was suddenly upon a big, furry herbivore, now in the sort of ever-sleep that made his body fall apart. She squealed with glee, there was still enough left by the buzzards that she could have her fun.
With entrail necklaces and eyes for gems, Iri and the familiars played their game. But when it was time to be going home, Iri returned to the tree where she had been. In the stream nearby, she washed off the slick oil, and the sticky scent, and nestled her notebook in her hand once more.
And then she walked off, back towards the Tower, as if returning from nothing more than a simple stroll.
___________________________________________________________________
Name: Irrisorie (EAR-ih-sor-ee)
Aliases: Iri (eerie) / Sorie (sOR-ee)
Race: Firrerreo
Age: 28
Height: 5'4
Weight: 120 lbs
Birth place: Aaeton
||Appearance||
Iri is of average height, with a petite and dainty build. However, her wiry muscles can be surprisingly strong, and so it's best to avoid her when she's in an... enthusiastic mood. Iri's eyes smile, even when her expression does not, and her light brown irises have metallic flecks that look like literal gold. Her dark, almost black hair has a warm, reddish shade to it, and falls to the center of her shoulder blades. Her firrerreo heratige is visible in the streaks of metallic gold that run through the black, sometimes visible, sometimes not, depending on how her hair is pinned that particular day. Her cream colored skin is marked by several scars -- traumas so deep as to have permanently marred a Firrerreo. One scar, several inches long, runs along the underside of her jaw, starting at the base of her ear. Another one runs diagonally along the top of her thigh, and yet another curves around the outside of her upper arm. The last notable one is on her back, and runs parallel to her spine from the base of her left shoulderblade, to the middle of her hip. She has a few other scars, but these are minor and subltle, on fingers or toes, or near joints.
Her cloak is black, and has no hood. The cotton fabric has been worn limp and soft with the years, and can often be found with the acquisitions of Iri's adventures -- sometimes mud and dirt, water and dust. The wide, sweeping neck is trimmed with round maroon beads, and usually hangs off one shoulder or another, revealing the simple, thin-strapped black dress she wears underneath. Her cloak is cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt, more utilitarian than fashionable. The outer-cloak splits just above her knee, revealing again her under-dress. The lower hems of both are oft' repaired, and usually ripped or torn regardless. Wide, flaring sleeves cover her arms, trimmed with the same maroon beads as her collar. Various parts of her cloak bear subtle black embroidery, in the form of inter-twining roses, vines, and symbols. She usually wears nothing more on her feet than simple black slippers, with dark purple ribbons that wrap around her ankles. Every bit of her wardrobe is chosen for texture as much as color -- the soft cotton, the smooth beads, the silk satin of her ribbons, the firmness of the leather.
Those who know the Mythos can see another part of her, invisible to the lost -- the familiars that often follow her around. In actuality, they are nothing more than hallucinations -- facets of Iri's forbidden subconscious. However, due to Iri's strength in telepathy, they appeal just as real to other Mythos-sensitives as they do to her. For more information on the familiars, see below.
||Personality||
Few people actually call the strange girl 'Irrisorie'. She almost always is hailed by either 'Iri' or 'Sorie'. She has forgotten her surname, and has no reason to find a new one, so she goes without. When she was barely more than an infant, a series of traumas split her mind into two divisions. Her conscious mind exists without perception of pain or suffering. Hers is a form of extreme Naivte, to the point where death is little more than a very long sleep, violence is just a game, and blood is pretty red paint.
There are times in which she will function normally -- especially when speaking about some fact, or the Mythos. But then she'll say or do something very... odd. Other people are as much a fascination to her as birds and flowers and sky. She tends to percieve these things in black and white, coming to simple conclusions that are surprisingly insightful.
When Iri decides she wants something, she has trouble understanding 'no' as an answer. While distracable, her memory is usually very sharp, and she will pursue her mission with dogged persisance. However, mercy may come in appealing to Gnare, who will gently guide her on to something else.
Iri is the sort who's content to remain in her own world. However, if asked, she will show a selfless loyalty. Though she can't always percieve the needs of those around her, if she can, she will do what she can to help. Iri is implicitly trusting, and if not for Clamo, it's likely she'd walk off happily with Death himself, at a single sweet word.
For those who take the time to understand Iri's motivations and mind, they might find themselves a good, albeit strange, friend. Perhaps she has enough good qualities to redeem the macabre shade of her life. Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
||The Familiars||
About:
They are a part of Iri, and yet they are not -- so they are dearly familiar, but not quite friends -- and thus, she has dubbed them 'the familiars'. Sometimes they are present, sometimes they are not, and they can appear and disappear without warning or notice, and Iri rarely gives any indication of their whereabouts. Though truly figments of her subconscious, they interact with the world as their own selves.
Gnare: The most commonly seen of the familiars. He is a Dark Wolf, and a very loyal fellow, usually sitting faithfully at his master's side when he is present. His fur is a dark shade of navy, with two silver eyes that seem to shine in the darkness. His shoulders are mantled in a dense pallet of leathery skin, which, if he had physical mass, would have protected him from the wicked stinger that tips his tail. His teeth are long, sharp, and gleaming white -- but have no bite. He is, after all, only a hallucination. He usually manifests as Iri's voice of reason, especially in interactions with other people.
Clamo: This Corellian Banshee Bird never speaks, but is always heard. He'll swoop in at just the right moment, screeching call announcing the presence of danger. In times of general wariness, he'll simply remain and watch, often perching on Gnare's leathery back. His appearance is the norm of his species, white with narrow black stripes on his upper side, a bright red throat, a short, but curved and powerful beak and long edges to his tail. He's approximately the size of an eagle.
Baor: Though his appearances are rare, this massive Boar Wolf is no creature to be trifled with. He appears only when the greatest threats are approaching Iri -- threats that Clamo can't warn away. Though he has no physical presence, the sheer horror of his appearance, as vividly represented through Iri's telepathy, is enough to make even the most certain soul think twice. His ugly maw is usually dripping with drool, his flank foaming with sweat, his beady eyes filled with rage.
Etc: Iri has approximately ten familiars that appear and disappear; some are more familiar than others. For example, there is a puppy Kath hound who especially likes to appear when she's extremely happy, and a magnalui who comes when places just feel dark (Though, as he's a Hallucination, the benefit is purely psychological).
Profession: (Grey Jedi) Stellar Mythic
Skills: General artistic ability. Other than that, nothing notable.
Previous Faction: N/A
Mastery Level: Knight
Staff:
Evoco
Eh-VUH-ko
Eh-VUH-ko
Iri's staff is approximately five feet long, from tip to pommel. Its core is a dense hardwood, wrapped with varying textures. Strips of different materials are wrapped neatly around the staff. From the pommel to the tip, there's the dark grey, sand-papery skin of a local sharp-toothed fish, a ridged bit of royal purple cordory cloth, a bit of short-haired, but very soft white fur, the shed, emerald skin of a smooth lizard, a bit of dense black canvas, and a strip of dark blue satin. The pommel, a nearly-spherical stone, is bound to the staff by four metal prongs. Though it was once rough, it has been worn smooth by the years, revealing a marbled swirl of deep brown and crimson red within. The head of Iri's bears a flat, circular ring of wrought iron, decorated with ornate, almost dainty cut-outs. The ring was bent at the center to form a right angle, so that it appears as if two semi-circles are fastened to the tip of the shaft, and then join at the top. Within this cradle, a fist-sized sphere is suspended. Usually, the sphere is unremarkable -- polished to a sheen, but dull and milky inside. However, those who have eyes for the Mythos have the pleasure of understanding why Iri chose it. When the staff is in her hand, it dances with a million different colors, which dart around and flitter within, ever changing, flaring and dulling, in a shimmering show of lights. It is partly a product of Iri's subconscious, but it is also partly a manipulation of pure Mythos.
From the base of the wrought iron, many small trinkets hang. There are somewhere between a dozen and two dozen, each tied on a different sort of cord. Strips of leather, some narrow ribbons, narrow silver chain, are some of the sorts of cords that bound the trinkets. Each cord is a different length, but all are less than twelve inches, so that the trickets gather around the end of the staff, and chink together as they move, making all sorts of noises. The trinkets vary as much as their cords do; there's the small skull of a shrew, a few colored crystals, a sea shell, the fluffy tail of a small rodent, among others; all acquired in Iri's various wanderings, and added over time. She likes the noise they make when they move together, and she chose each one for some special delight -- such as a twinkle in its color, or the texture of its surface.
Sword:
Mucro
Moo-crow
Moo-crow
Irrisori's sword is little more than a dagger, which she keeps sheathed on the belt at her waist. Its blade is a dark greyish black, double-edged and sharpened to a decent point. It bears enough dents and nicks to suggest somewhat negligent use, but it is almost always sharp enough to serve the desired purposes. (Namely cutting flowers or fruit, or whittling away at a random bit of wood.) The light grey grip is rough like sandpaper, so that it does not slip out of Iri's grasp, even when wet. The handle is carved out of a bit of black marble, with silver veins running through it, giving the dagger a significant weight. A few runes are burned into the Grey material of the grip, and the inscription is continued by silver etching in the black blade. While it loses something in translation, it means basically, 'There is a soft art in sharpness'.
Force (Mythos) Abilities or practices:
Mythos Mist: (A variation of Force Illusion) The author-given name of her odd telepathic ability. Iri has such a strong telepathic presence in the Force, that she can alter the aura, for lack of a better word, of the mythos around her. Up to a certain distance, this presence hangs in the air like mist -- hence the name. All who are within this metaphorical mist, are gently enveloped in Iri's telepathic influence. Those who can sense the Mythos, can sense this mist, and those who can't, cannot sense the mist. Because it is broad, and non-invasive, this is very difficult to guard against, because when one is in the mist, the influence is coming from no particular direction. In fact, it's nearly impossible to defend against it with the Mythos, because it alters the Mythos the defender would be using. The only real effect of this is that Iri's hallucinations -- her familiars, and the images she creates with her mind -- are visible to all around her. The range of this mist is generally dependent on how much energy she has. During times when she is separated from the mythos -- such as withdraws due to lack of Etherium, or her fits of terror, these illusions, of course, disappear. Usually harmless.
Memory Imprint: A somewhat flawed and imperfect skill for Iri, but present, all the same.
Telekinesis: A relatively basic manifestation of the skill. Iri uses non-elemental telekinesis to move things. However, it almost always appears that one of her familiars is moving things. It is this melding of skills that gives the familiars some -- but not much -- physical presence. Any IC mentions of familiars affecting physical things is assumed to be an instance of telekinesis.
Mental Link: While a mental link can be easily established with Iri, and she's taken to sometimes establishing them herself, one must be exceedingly careful -- Stress or unhappiness within the other's mind might trigger a reaction in Iri, causing her to rip violently and suddenly away from the Mental Link.
Specialized Skills:
Telekinetic: 6
Telepathic: 7
Body: 1
Sense: 5
Protection: 2
Healing: 2
Destruction: N/A
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 6
Intelligence: 7
Speed: 7
Leadership: 4
Unarmed: 2
Melee Weapons: 3
Ranged Weapons: 2
Force (Mythos) Attunement: +4
Despite the Darkness in her soul, the pain exists in the absence of the Mythos -- when she is all alone. When she touches the etheral force, it echoes some of her good intention.
Bio:
I.
She was born smiling, while the sticky birthstuff still clung to her skin. Her parents gave to her the name 'Irrisorie', meaning, 'a smile with irony,' for she would be their bane as much as their joy.
Mere moments after this, the screams of life filled Iri's little lungs, and her mother cradled her, only half listening to the doctor congratulate her on a healthy, normal litle girl.
But Iri's mother knew that she was not normal. She was special, and in the best of ways.
II.
By the light of the day, Iri was her mother's little joy. Though she was only two, Mother knew she was smart. Very smart. Ir's little mouth made surprisingly whole sentences, and, by her third birthday, she had taught herself to read.
The mode of this was nothing other than her nightly bedtime stories. Through a question, she learned that the letters meant sounds, and the spaces were pauses. So she'd follow the words with her eyes, and she'd follow her mother's voice with her ears, until the strange letters came to mean something, and she could recognize the shape of the word somewhere else, and tell her mother proudly what it was. Iri was a bright and loving child, and her mother was perfectly attentive. Until she tucked Iri into bed. And then she vanished.
The light of the moon found Iri the property of something wholly other. Iri's father was not the man he seemed to be. He did evil, horrible things to Iri -- the details of which no mind should dwell upon. Though, let it be known that the little one was never violated. Even so, the abuse left scars upon her, body and mind.
The pain, spirit and flesh, might have been enough to drive some poor souls into a merciful death. But Iri was a Firrerreo, and her body fought... and she simply... could not... die... And yet, it was through this that Iri showed just how special she was. Her mind could not handle the pain, and so it tucked it away. The pain and the sadness and the suffering filtered down into the deepest, darkest layers of her subconscious.
So, Iri became like a coin. By the light, she was everything happy, naïve and innocent. She did not hide the pain -- she simply could not perceive it. She would skin her knee, crush her finger, and not a tear came to her eye. Only a smile. Her hand would still jerk back from a hot stove, for those reflexes occurred without the input of the brain, but when she grabbed the raw end of an electrical cord, and her hair stood on end, and her fingers burned, she just smiled. And laughed. A beautiful, sweet, horrible, disturbing laugh.
But sometimes, some force would disturb her. The coin would flip, and for as long as that force was upon her, she was pain. She was pain and suffering. But these things were heavy, and when the force was upon her no longer, the heavy darkness moved back to the bottom, and flipped the coin around again.
So things were for the next three years. Then they changed.
III.
Iri came into the living room, and she saw her mother lying on the floor, with her eyes closed. She lay in a pretty little puddle, like the ones after great big rain storms. But this puddle was red, a pretty shade of red, and it was wet.
And wet things with colors were paint. "Mommy, is this paint?" Mommy didn't answer, and her eyes were closed, so she must have been sleeping. "Oh, shhhhhhhhh, I won't wake you up mommy. I'll paint you a picture and surprise you!" Iri dipped her hands in the paint, and it was warm and sticky. If it was warm, then maybe mommy had warmed it up. Iri looked over, and saw that mommy must have kept it warm inside herself, because it was coming out of some lines in her tummy. And so, Iri took her paint covered hands and drew a picture on the wall, with big, bright strokes.
And when she was done, and stepping back to admire her picture, her pretty red picture, she decided it was perfectly ready for mommy to see. And so she went back to her mommy, and poked and prodded her to wake her up, but mommy didn't wake up. So she jumped up and down next to her, splashing the paint up and over all of them, giggling because mommy had made a wake-up game.
And then she hear Father come in, and he must have seen her game and heard her words, because he told her, "Mommy isn't going to wake up." "Oh," Iri said, disappointed. She must have broken the rules of the game. Then, she saw that Father had a knife in his hand, and it had paint on it too. "Father, did you make mommy's paint come out?" he said nothing which Iri decided meant 'yes'. "Oh! Father, look at the picture I made!" she ran over to the wall. "Look! It's mommy and me! And there's a doggy too because I want a doggy." She pointed proudly at the stick figures. "Come here, Sorie." he said. Iri took a step toward her father, but then she stopped, and smiled a big, bright smile. "Father! Let's play tag! You're it!" Iri dashed off through the house, leaving red hand prints on the wall as she swung around the corners. She reached the backdoor, and turned around just long enough to tell her father that he was a slow-poke.
And then she ran. She ran for the wind at her back, she ran for the reedy grass that whispered on her dress, and when her little white shoes fell off, she ran for the mud between her toes. And then the field melted into the trees, and still she ran, for the cool thrill of the trees.
Her feet never hurt, despite the prickers and branches that cut into her flesh, and she probably could have kept running until she just fell down and slept. But then she splashed into a shallow creek, and she liked the way the red paint made ribbons in the water, so she stood there until all the red washed away. She didn't hear anything but forest sounds, and Iri smiled. She was so clever at this game.
IV.
Iri eventually wandered into another neighborhood, having somewhat forgotten how to get home. It was not long before a police officer on patrol notice the wandering child, and scooped her up, just as night was coming on. "Where's your mommy?" the woman asked. Iri replied, "She is asleep and won't wake up, and all her paint came out, and so I don't think she wants to play any more games."
Iri made a good friend in the police officer, and lots of others over the next few weeks. She knew that at first, they had been horrified by the way she could be hurt and not notice. But her body was that of a Firrerreo, and it healed amazingly fast, and none of the injuries she inflicted upon herself remained long. They asked her lots of questions, and then they helped her be brave when she had to stand up in front of a very many people, in the big white building, and tell them that yes, that was her father, and yes, he had used his knife to make all of Mommy's paint come out.
They also had pictures of Iri's pretty picture, and she liked that everyone had got to see it. And then, they showed some pictures of the blue marks on Iri's skin that looked a bit like hands. Then some of her friends showed Father out the door, and she didn't see him again.
Iri would never see her mother again either. The Aaeton justice system found her a place at the Chiri Marget Home For Lost Boys And Girls. Here she stayed, where they learned to deal with her when the coin flipped. Many people knew her parents and her story from the holo-news -- and it was this that caused the fickle public to simultaneously bless those at the Home as saints, and yet thoughtfully pas her over, when the prospective parents came to visit.
V.
Days of joy and nights of pain passed, one after another, as the leaves grew on the trees, spread to full blossom, then shifted to brilliant colors of red, before falling dead and brown to the ground. Then the leaves grew again, and they died, and they grew, and they died, and the planet moved around the sun, and Iri was sixteen.
She had grown into a beautiful girl, with a bright smile and brighter eyes, but still, her night-terrors would grip her in the darkness. There were times in which you could speak to her, and she would seem perfectly like the other children, calm, kind, respectful. But then, there were other times in which she would say something, or do something, that just... wasn't right. Always the first to answer in lessons, the teachers loved her, but she was in her own little world.
A few things broke the monotony. Museum fieldtrips were one. Iri loved them, because she loved to go and touch everything, to feel all the textures, and appreciate the way they moved across her skin, smooth or rough, soft or sharp.
While she was there, at the Museum, surrounded by all of the textures, she wandered away from the group, and happened upon an exhibit, and happened upon a man. He was tall and he was cloaked, and he smelled like something odd, and Iri decided she would talk to him.
At first he was surprised, but then it seemed he warmed up the the idea of conversation, and finally, an expression came over his face like he had just discovered something important. 'Mythos' he said. He kept talking about the 'Mythos' and how she had it, how he had known it from the very beginning, and that's why he had been drawn to her, come to talk to her, because of her power in the Mythos. Iri thought it would be silly to correct him, because he seemed so very happy at what he was saying.
He asked who she was with, and she told him about the Home. And then he talked with her teacher, and there was much nodding and murmuring, and then the teacher looked relieved. Then the man returned, and invited Iri along to a new planet, and a new life. And she said yes. So Iri went with him, and that was that.
VI.
Aiaru was a spectacular new place. From the cities and suburbs of Aaeton, Iri had been plunged into a psychedelic swirl of sight and sound, broad green plants, and bio-luminescent creatures, huge insects and rushing rivers. Everything fascinated her, everything filled her with wonder.
Especially the white tower. The grand white tower with its dark black tunnels. She ran her hand along the stone the whole way, letting the exquisite textures fill her... coarse... smooth... cool...
She listen to the many new people in the big room. They all wore cloaks and held staffs. Iri began to connect the dots, from the Mythos to the men. They asked her many questions, and she answered all with perfect honesty. And then, she felt other things... strange things in her mind... they didn't push, they just listened. Listened to the pulse of her thoughts. And so she poked them a bit with her own mind, and sang them a song. It was a great game.
Then the things were gone, and there were surprised looks on all their faces. And Iri smiled. She had won the game! They said things about potential, about her odd state of mind, and how it could be worked with. And they talked about the Mythos, and Iri thought it all sounded wonderful.
Then, they set the burning blue dust in front of her. She drank it deep into her lungs.
VII.
Iri's eyes were opened now. The dark places of the world were now brighter, her thinking clearer. And, under the influence of the etherium, Iri's night terrors all but vanished. And then, of course... there were the hallucinations. But they were not fiction to Iri, they were true, they were real. Over the next few months, as she was exposed to all sorts of things within the temple and Aiaru, a few characters began to recur. These creatures were pieced together from her own fragmented memories as well as, unbeknownst to her, small bits of the memories of those around her. These familiar ones would come to number nearly a dozen, but most remarkable were three -- the first, a Dark Wolf, with silky fur like navy satin. He spoke words of wisdom, and of knowledge and of patience, and Iri called him Gnare. The second was a Corellian Banshee Bird, Clamo, a falcon-shaped avian with black and white stripes on its wings, and a red throat. His screeching cry warned Iri of the places she should not go. And last of the three was Baor, the Burra. He came when bad things needed to be scared away. These hallucinations gave voice and body to parts of Iri's subconscious that had been buried with the pain -- caution, aggression, and thoughtfulness. By adding back the parts, she became closer to a whole. But as long as her conscious shunned the pain, her mind would always be fragmented.
Over the course of time, and as Iri's studied progressed, it was suddenly realized that Iri's hallucinations could be seen by others. The Infomancer who bore the brunt of the discovery had his feathers quite ruffled, as he found himself staring through the teeth of a very peeved Gnare. Perhaps Iri had a bit more potential for telepathy than the elder ones had originally thought.
VIII.
A year or two passed, and then three, then four, and Iri and her cohorts became a common sight among the halls of The Tower. Her skills and her influence expanded, even to the point where some of the Lost could see shadows of her friends. Iri's intelligence continued to show, and she quickly devoured the lessons taught to her, of planets and galaxies, of formulas and mathematics, and of philosophy and theory.
At this point, one of the other mythics, a former Jedi named Rhetor, began to work with her to apply the principles of Force Illusion. Rhetor wanted Iri to learn to use the Mythos to manipulate her hallucinations. Long hours and efforts poured into this, and once, Rhetor even made the mistake of pushing Iri too far. It had been too long since she had breathed the sweet blue smoke, and Iri's body began to shake and tremble. The slightest touch sent her deep into a fit of terror, and it took Rhetor several days to pull her out of this state, to get the blue smoke back into her veins. But finally he succeeded, and it seemed as if that had been the break-through -- it had joined something in her conscious to the hallucinations of her subconscious. Now, her hands could draw ribbons in the air, and her fingers could twirl runes upon the wall, and she could counjour memories into the palm of her hand.
In fact, memories were another much-worked topic of Iri's training. Try and try as Rhetor did, he could not impart to Iri mastery of the memory imprint. Some memories came to her incredibly easily -- memories she enjoyed, memories she liked. They would play in her palm, over and over again. But other memories shifted past the layer of her conscious, to the other side of her psyche. To touch them was to risk bringing forth a fit of terror, and it simply was not worth it. But Iri was content with her imperfect skill, just as Gnare was content to tell her to listen to her master, and Clamo was content to remember what was danger, to remember what hurt, and to keep Iri away from such things again.
VIII.
Iri's twenty-first birthday came and went sometime in that next year, but she was not sure exactly when. Though her body was that of an adult, her mind was just barely beginning to come into that maturity. She had been with Gnare and Clamo long enough that small parts of them had begun to rub into her conscious. She was beginning to understand the concept of danger, the idea of risk. However, these were only inklings, only the slightest glimmers of gossamer next to an impenetrable wall of black.
It was at this point that the teachers decided that there was little more they could teach Iri as an understudy. It was not that she had learned everything -- far from it, it was simply that they had figured out what she could not be taught, and had ceased attempting to Force it on her. Thus, Iri was allowed out of the watchful shadows that had marked her time as an understudy, and into the ranks of the Mythics. One of her teachers, curious to see how she would handle the task, gave Iri the mission of creating a staff for herself, unaided. She began with a long, straight shaft of wood, shaped to her sketched specifications by another mythic. Then, bits and pieces began to come together into her staff. At the base, she attached an almost-spherical stone, knowing that the stone floors might wear through a wooden foot. Various materials were wrapped neatly around the staff, each chosen for their unique texture, and found in Iri's wanderings. One-third of the way from the top of the staff, she decided to place two metal guards, one on either side, so that if she ever had to hold her staff while going someplace odd, her fingers wouldn't get so stiff. The next addition was a flat, circular wring of wrought iron, which Iri had once salvaged from the wreckage of a rotted wooden bench. It was decorated with ornate cut-outs, and for her staff, she, with help, of course, bent it at the center to form a ninety-degree angle, so that it appeared as if two semi-circles came from the end of her staff, and joined at the top. The last piece was one Iri had treasured for years, a perfectly spherical gem rescued from its grave, forgotten in the sand under a shade-leaf tree. It was suspended within the cradle of the wrought-iron in such a way that it appeared to hover within the housing. Iri polished its surface to a smooth sheen, examining happily the translucent, milky cloud within. It seemed an odd, dull piece for a girl with such a love for things with shine and color. However, when she first picked up the completed staff, its purpose became clear -- colors of every hue and shade danced within it, ever changing and flitting about as if they had a mind of their own. They were, of course, only visible to those whose eyes saw the Mythos.
IX.
As Iri matured, she also became more aware of the people around her. She had always known that other people had their own minds, thoughts, and presences, but now she found herself with a curiosity to get to know them, to interact with them, and to understand why they were what they were. Sometimes, she would become too enthusiastic, and under the weight of her assault, the surprised Mythics would allow their telepathic barriers to crumble, and Iri would rush into their conscious, a disturbing presence. But she could feel in them the emotions that she could not feel in herself. Like fingers on a hot stove, everything in her conscious jerked away from these emotions, leaving the poor soul free and solitary, once again.
Therefore, her next lesson was control, and though Gnare and Clamo could whisper her in the right direction, it was something she would have to learn herself. But for all her effort, the results were naught, and Iri was distracted from the study, letting it fade away into the depths of her memory. It would have to be a process, a slow, winding process...
In fact, the next five years of Iri's life could be characterized by those words. Slow, and winding. She took each day as its own individual gem, its own wonder and delight. She picked up friends, and she laid then down along the way, but it seemed as if no one could quite crack her code. Her contribution to the Mythics was simple and two-fold -- in the first matter, she made the ultimate presentation tool. She could draw in the air nearly anything her mind could fathom, making visual representation of abstract concepts. In the same vein, there were times in which a strange music came up on her soul, and she would begin to dance, and draw flaring colors in the air like dancing ribbons, and it was a wonder to behold. In the second matter, she tagged along various places with scouting groups and such. One instance revealed that her visions could touch any who knew the Mythos, and Baor had himself the pleasure of chasing away a small band of Forsaken.
But all was not well for Iri. The longer she endured without a fit of terror, the more intense it was when it finally came. Those around her could do nothing, simple nothing, but lock her in her room to fight her own demons. Iri was viciously addicted to the Etherium, and her withdraws onset quickly. Without the comfort of her friends, she descended into worlds of maddening pain, and only the shots Etherium, coursing through her blood hot as adrenaline, could bring back to her the small semblance of sanity she retained.
X.
And, even now, after nearly two decades, Iri still had a love for the slick red paint. Never did she draw the paint from a living creature -- Clamo and Gnare prevented her from doing this. So with her knife, she would take the paint of a familiar, or her own paint, and use the blade to cast it upon the walls. Her works caught the essence of their subject in shades of glistening crimson.
These existed only in the realm of hallucination, but they often appeared so vividly, so clearly that it was as disturbing as if it were real. Iri could not be shooed along; she was committed to her art. But, if one simply let her finish her picture, then she would move along, soon distracted by some other thing, and the paintings would fade away.
But some lingered. Those in her room were ever present, be she in or out of the room -- with her psyche, she had ingrained them into the very presence, the very Mythos of the stone, and all who were sensitive to it saw them. Yet, if one could get over the crimson shade, and the wet hue... they really were beautiful pictures.
And so time had drawn Iri along to age twenty-six, and her place in the tower was home. The future is never certain, not for a single soul, but it was especially precarious for Iri. Would her addiction finally kill her? Would someone crack her code? Would the two halves ever become one again, or would the coin finally turn the darkside out, and stay that way forever?
Irrisorie did not care.
While others fretted about their future, she simply stopped, and smelled a rose.
//_________________________________________________\\
RP Sample:
"The stylus has a bit of division to it," she said, with a voice as sweet and clear as the nectar rolling into her hand. "I'd say family Aphilidae. What do you think, Gnare?"
The wolf looked up from where he lazed under the shade of the flowering tree. He pried a skeptical eyebrow upwards to take a peek at the flower in his master's hand. His tail wagged, the stinger swishing a bit through the grass. "It seems reasonable enough to me."
Irrisorie nodded, using the bit of graphite in her hand to make one last curling stroke upon the parchment, labeling the sketch that lay in her book, a flower as crisp and real as the one in her hand, represented by varying shades of the dense black dust. Iri closed her book happily, and set it aside. She looked up at the tree, and her toe thoughtfully prodded a tuft of grass.
"I want that one," she said, eyes upon the highest blossom on the tree.
Gnare eyed it. "It's probably just the same as the one you had."
"No. It's got a special scent. Because it's at the top of the tree it's got a special scent, it's special."
Gnare sighed, and quietly began, "Now you're going to ask me to climb the tr--"
"Climb the tree, won't you Gnare?" Iri overlapped. "But please be careful."
Gnare sighed again, but hauled himself up off the ground. He leapt up onto the tree, his claws appearing to dig in deep, but leaving no mark. Though the branches were dense, the foliage thick, the large wolf did not disturb them. Rather, he came back down a few moments later, the prized blossom held gently between his teeth.
Iri took it happily from him, burying her nose in the center of the petals, breathing deep its scent, and giggling at the pleasure. She let the blossom drop again, revealing a layer of yellow pollen on her nose, which disappeared with a laugh and a shake of her head. She blew some of the pollen at Gnare, and he sneezed comically.
Suddenly, a bit of motion caught her eye, and the blossom fell aside, forgotten. A carrion bird flew overhead, and Iri rose quickly, pulling the skirt of her cloak up to her knees, and running along through the low plants and brambles.
She came to a familiar sweet smell, and was suddenly upon a big, furry herbivore, now in the sort of ever-sleep that made his body fall apart. She squealed with glee, there was still enough left by the buzzards that she could have her fun.
With entrail necklaces and eyes for gems, Iri and the familiars played their game. But when it was time to be going home, Iri returned to the tree where she had been. In the stream nearby, she washed off the slick oil, and the sticky scent, and nestled her notebook in her hand once more.
And then she walked off, back towards the Tower, as if returning from nothing more than a simple stroll.
plus i've updated them since the last time you came round with a new app ^_^ Vex or I should be around soon, but my brain is still a little fuzzy right now so not sure when i'll be on it
